


Paint Her Lips Crimson

by MrSpears



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Abuse, Dark Comedy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, LGBTQ Character, Love, M/M, Physical Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Trans Character, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-05 10:54:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4177182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrSpears/pseuds/MrSpears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exploring the depths of Grell and William's dark, abusive relationship. Grell finds herself ensnared in a demon's claws, and Undertaker loves Ronald's shoes. Rated M mostly for smut and violence (especially pertaining to abuse). Includes properly gendered Grell, very limited SebbyxCiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Insufficient

The storm clouds over London matched the dark, angry bruises on Grell’s face. Yet it was only the sky that cried. 

She sat in front of her vanity, pale white hands with long, slender fingers folded serenely on her lap. Thick red hair was gathered off the nape of her neck and pinned in place with a tortoiseshell comb, only a few rebellious strands escaping, falling long enough to curl around her shoulders. She hated it when he hit her in the face. She hated the ugly black and purple splotches that made her face swell. If he was going to hit her, she wanted him to make her bleed. Red was always so much prettier sliding down her nose and lips, dripping from her chin – dark and rich like claret. Red was cathartic. Bruises were just nasty, swollen lumps.

He had only hit her once, and not hard enough. She hated his failures almost as much as she adored his passionate aggression. 

Grell smiled. Leaning closer to her mirror, she dipped her fingers into a small silver pot and gathered rouge onto her fingers. Glancing at her reflection, she smeared the obscene red color over her lips, lingering on the bottom one, blowing herself a kiss off her fingertips. It was going to be a long day, and there were many, many pointless lives she would have to reap. Perhaps it would not be all boring. There was always the chance that Will would send her with a partner, convinced that it made her work harder. She did not have the heart to break it to him that Ronald was not much of a disciplinarian. 

It would be better if Will stopped giving her stacks upon stacks of dreadful paperwork. It was becoming harder and harder to ignore. There was barely room for her to sit in her own office. 

“Something might be done about that,” she said to him. He had not left yet, they always went together. It was the only way he could make sure she arrived on time. 

“Done about what?” he tightened his tie around his neck and adjusted his glasses. Sunlight streaming through the window glinted off the lenses. 

“All of my paperwork,” she said. “It’s too much.” She replaced the lid on her pot of rouge. She puckered her lips and unclipped her flame red tresses, allowing them to tumble freely down her back as she shook them out to be brushed. 

“Have you ever tried filling it out? It is just a thought.” He turned to the bedside table and reached down to pull on his short black gloves. “It is part of your job, after all.” 

“So is slicing open whores and pretending I care about their lack of contribution to society.” Grell took the last of the rouge that was on her fingers and swiped it across her cheeks. “I’d rather we burn down the office. You can fuck me on my desk as the flames consume everything around us.” She grinned and turned to face him, gripping the back of her chair like an excited child. Her yellow and green eyes gleamed. “Does that not sound splendid? Would it not be romantic?”

“Sutcliff,” Will said in that cold, clipped tone that drove her crazy in all the right ways. “We are going to be late.” 

“You worry too much,” Grell pouted her lips, standing and grabbing her coat from the bed, sliding it over her arms and letting it hang lazily off her shoulders. Will always hated how she dressed. Something about not being professional, whatever the hell that meant. 

Grell sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching underneath it to pull out her little red boots. She had such tiny feet. For that, she was grateful. 

Will scoffed, coiling strong fingers around the handle of his death scythe. It was chilling, streamlined, and efficient. Just like him. 

“I should fire you,” he said. It had practically become his mantra. 

“You should,” Grell said. “But you would miss me.” 

“You greatly overestimate your own charisma.” 

“As you greatly undervalue me and all of my work.” She stood up, teetering purposefully on her heels, playfully leaning forward to give him a kiss on the nose. Will dodged the kiss, annoyed, and swatted her with the butt of his death scythe. Grell giggled and spun around cheerfully, picking up her chainsaw and grasping the cord. She was could not wait to pull that thick cord back, hear the roar of the machine and the whirring of its teeth that caused the heavy vibrations she adored. The very thought gave her chills. Her smile widened. 

“Let’s go, Will.” She said coyly, rubbing up against his side like a cat and nuzzling his neck. “We’re going to be late.”


	2. Corpses

If an ancient god had risen up, turned London on its head, shaken it like a snow globe and then righted it again - Grell's office would have looked the same. 

She touched the toe of her boot against the side of a box, sliding it out of her way as she began picking her way past stacks upon stacks of papers. She wondered if she would be able to find her desk. She couldn't even really remember the last time she saw the damn thing. She remembered it being dark, sleek mahogany with polished brass handles. It was probably lost forever to the abyss, where everything she loved eventually ended up. 

She grabbed a thick stack of papers; all one file, maybe for that 70 year-old lord she cut down last year. Or had it been the year before? Will was going to have her head on a spike. She dropped the file carelessly into a half-empty box and started sweeping papers aside with her gloved hands. The records flew into the air like the world's most ominous, boring snowstorm. She was making progress, now she could see wood. 

"Good morning, senpai!" A familiar voice drifted into the room. Grell didn't look up, far too fascinated by the deep grooves in the surface of her desk to return the greeting. Had it really been so long since Will had fucked her on this thing? 

That was depressing. 

"Ronald," she finally said, turning to face the doorway. "We have talked about this." 

He lingered there, looking - as always - pristine with the exception of his untamable blonde and black hair. He always breezed into work looking like he was suffering a hangover. 

"What do you mean?" He lifted the two cups of coffee he was balancing with effortless grace on the palms of his hands. "Yours has extra cream, just as you like. It's paler than a Phantomhive." 

"I told you not to call me 'senpai'," her red lip curled. "I don't like the way it makes me feel. It is far too … masculine an address.” 

 

"Sorry, s- umph." He corrected himself. "I keep forgetting you are a woman now."

"I have always been a woman, Ronald. But all right." 

"…So do you want your coffee?" He lifted it a little higher and quirked his eyebrow. 

She walked over to him, grasping the handle of the coffee cup and blowing the weak steam from its surface, meeting his gaze over the rim. "Thank you." 

"You're welcome," he flashed her a winning smile and sipped his own coffee - black, of course. 

"Are we working together today?" She hopped up onto her desk, crossing her legs and taking another sip from her cup. 

"Yes. The boss decided you need a babysitter." Ronald's brows went up and down mischievously. "I'm all too happy to accommodate." 

"You had your chance," Grell shrugged, letting her coat fall a little farther down her shoulders. She gave Ronald a long look through thick, dark eyelashes. "You wasted it on that bitch at the front desk." 

"I chose life. You know what the boss would have done to me?" Ronald stepped closer to the desk. Grell set her coffee cup down and leaned back, resting on her palms, spreading her legs apart teasingly.

"Turned you inside out," she slid her tongue over her lips. "It would have been glorious."

"Yes. I value my job and my undefiled corpse." He reached out, grabbing Grell's bulge through her pants. "Pervert." 

"Undertaker deals in corpses." Grell said, closing her thighs around his hand. "I'm sure he'd delight in making a coffin for you." 

"I don't know what you mean."

"He likes your shoes."

"That doesn't make any sense." Ronald scowled and set his cup down on a stack of documents. "This place needs to be cleaned." 

"Are you volunteering?" Grell glowered at him over the rim of her glasses. 

"Senpai …Grell." He apologized with a shrug. "I don't believe in extra work."

Grell waved her hand airily and slid off the desk. "Where are we working today?"

"All over the place." Ronald adjusted his glasses. "The boss said, and I quote…" He cleared his throat for his best impression of Will's unimpressed monotone. "Knox, if you bring Sutcliff into this office a minute before 3am, you may consider yourself demoted."

"Ooh," Grell purred. "You know, last time he chastised me like that, he took away my scythe. Talk of torture!" 

"He's not touching mine!" Ronald shook his head, messy hair swishing in all directions. 

"Mm," Grell touched her fingers to her lips and smirked behind them. "You don't want to know what I had to do to get it back."

A shiver traveled up Ronald's spine. He was suddenly possessed with the overwhelming urge to mow over some heads. 

"Are you ready to see blood, senpai?" He asked with a sudden surge of enthusiasm. 

"I will see yours, Ronald." Grell curled her fingers around the handle of her chainsaw.

"Right, right!" Ronald grinned nervously, lifting his hands and waving them defensively. "Let's go before the boss finds out we're still here!" 

 

00000000

 

The air smelled strongly of formaldehyde.

Undertaker ran his hands over the surface of the coffin's lid. Freshly oiled wood, rich purple satin, lavender sachets stuffed into the corners…. he breathed deeply, nostrils flaring. Undertaker pressed closer and ran his long tongue over the wood. It was bitter, but he loved the taste. He dragged his mouth down to a corner, he fingers stroking the elegant molding as if it were a lover. He nibbled on the dull edge. He loved the pressure on his teeth. It always spread a nice, hot ache down between his legs. Thank god for loose robes. 

His lip snagged on a splinter. Undertaker frowned, not minding the hot blood that dribbled down his chin so much as the breaking wood. He pulled the splinter from his lip, rolling it between his fingertips musingly. He would have to be more careful with his loves. 

The front door opened. The corner of Undertaker's mouth dipped into a frown. He rubbed the coffin lid as he waited to be addressed. He was expecting the young Earl Phantomhive, but not until later that afternoon. It was still early in the morning. Maybe it was an unexpected death; someone tragically young and beautiful. He purred and opened up the lid to the coffin, touching the purple satin inside. Maybe blonde, soft curls would be scattered over the little pillow inside. Soft, creamy skin - a trademark of English nobility - would be a nice compliment to the dark wood. 

"Bloody hell. It reeks of death in here." A familiar, pompous voice floated on the air. Undertaker grinned and hid it for the moment; he remained hunched over his coffin, waiting. 

"The boss will kill me!" Ronald protested. 

"Twenty minutes before our next appointment, Ronald. Twenty. Minutes. I'm not sitting on a rooftop picking my teeth until then." Grell rapped on the surface of a coffin. "Undertaker!" 

"Could be filling out your paperwork!" Ronald suggested cheerily. He was met with a cold glare. 

"Darling lady," Undertaker straightened, making his way over to where they stood. "How delightful to see you." 

Grell smiled and ducked her head, looking up at him over the rims of her red frames with dewy eyes. "Well! I'm rather glad that someone appreciates my company."

"I appreciate your company," Ronald groused.

"Yes, but you don't count." Grell extended her hand to Undertaker. He accepted it, nibbling on her fingertips. She giggled. 

"Does dear William know you're here?" Undertaker tilted his head. 

“Of course not. After that stunt he attempted to pull last time?” she swung her leg over one of the coffins, straddling it and gazing at him coyly. Undertaker touched the brim of his hat, wondering if she knew how hard he was staring. 

“I have an appointment in twenty minutes,” Grell said, running her hands up the length of the coffin, bring it to rest between her legs. “I can be late.” 

“Oh my god,” Ronald glanced out of the window, as if Will would be standing there in the street, watching the entire thing and ready to murder. “Grell, we have to go.”

“If you don’t want to watch, Ronald, don’t. But don’t be a prude either.” Grell bit the corner of her lip, sliding her jacket off, letting it drape over the back of the coffin. “Or you could suck it up, thank your lucky stars, and join.” 

“There won’t be room for him,” Undertaker whispered, resting a hand on Grell’s thigh and leaning in to press his lips to the shell of her ear. “As tightly as I will be pressed to you.” 

A blush crept up her neck, setting her cheeks on fire. Undertaker’s hand wandered up, sliding over the curve of her hip, plunging for her stiff bulge. She grabbed his wrist, pressing his hand closer, she used her own free hand to grab hold of his prominent chin and seize his lips in a kiss. 

“Oh, it is so devilishly romantic!” she said breathlessly. “A sordid tryst amongst the coffins! Close the curtains, sweet Undertaker, lock the door and show me the sweetest side of la petite mort…!”

“We are going to die.” Ronald said, accepting his fate. “I am going to die, you are going to die. Undertaker might die. Maybe.” 

“Don’t let me hold you from your assignment, dear.” Undertaker said, patting her thigh gently and stealing a kiss from her cheek. “I do not wish for you to catch ire from William on my account. But come back to me in your free time, and if you truly wish to experience the sweet side of death… I’ll have a coffin all ready for you.” He laughed under his breath, pulling away. Grell moaned and slid off the coffin, landing on the other side and folding her arms across her chest

“Ronald ruins all of my fun.” She sulked.

“Ronald wants to keep his job. Come on, it has been longer than twenty minutes!” Ronald was already halfway out the door. “Bye Undertaker! Have fun chewing on bodies. Or whatever you do all day.” 

Grell grabbed her coat, slipping it on to her shoulders and spinning around one last time. She leaned over the coffin, grabbing Undertaker by his robe. She dragged him as close as she could and gave him another long, lingering kiss. It was torture to leave him here, as riled as she was. He knew that, too. He was such a tease! 

“I hate you,” she said, shoving him away. 

“That is why you live with William.” He said, brushing it off. 

“Fuck. You’re right.” She tossed her long, red hair. “But you are one hell of a palette cleanser.” 

“Intent upon switching courses, my dear?” the Undertaker’s voice had a questioning lilt. 

“Will would murder me,” a lazy smile spread across her lips. “I’d like him to try, anyway. What a beautiful, passionate tangle. He steals my heart when he is in a rage, so possessive… so forceful!” she clasped her hands and pressed them against her chest. “It is glorious, Undertaker, glorious. He pursues me with the ferocity of an animal…!” 

“And holds you down, like a savage jungle cat. Intent on ripping out your heart.” Undertaker replied dryly. 

“Oh yes,” Grell winked. “Savage as a demon.” 

“Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Oh I would never…! Unless he wasn’t riled up enough. Then I might.” She sighed. “Back to work, then. Nose to the grindstone.... and all that rot.” 

“He gives you bruises, lady. He makes you bleed.” Undertaker observed. “Your love is sickly. His is a cancer.” 

“Red is the color of passion,” Grell said, lifting her chin and looking down her nose at the Undertaker. “And not everyone is deserving to wear it.” With that, she swept out, slamming the door shut behind her.


	3. Bruises

3:15. It was probably safe to go inside. 

Grell stood up, sliding her back against the rough wall, her feet screaming after crouching on the floor for the better part of an hour. Ronald had done the kindness of walking her home after work. Will had returned home early - a sure sign that something had pissed him off. They had arrived at 2:45, and to keep Ronald in his boss' good favor Grell had promised to wait out in the hall outside of the ugly apartment door. Her entire body was beginning to regret that decision. Next time she would let Will fire the bastard, and save her poor toes a few blisters. 

She placed her hand on the knob, her index finger sliding into the odd dent that was a remnant of their last passionate fight. Will had slammed the door so hard he nearly tore it off its hinges. The sound had brought out every neighbor from ten doors down to their step and it had been up to Ronald, with his easy smile and placating humor, to reassure them that everything was all right. He then made her coffee, just the way she liked it, and mopped the blood up from the bathroom floor. 

All right, fine. Maybe she didn’t want him to be fired. 

Grell took a deep breath and opened up the door. It was unlocked, which was not unusual. Will was the only one with a key, he did not allow her to have one. When he was feeling generous, he left the door unlocked for her. When he was in an ill-humor, he would make her stand in the hall and knock like a maid. 

The apartment was dark. The only light came from a single gas lap burning in the center of the small breakfast table. Its dim yellow glow did nothing but cast heavy shadows on William’s face, making it resemble an eerie, blank death mask. He tilted his head down, and the light reflected off his glasses. He reached up and adjusted them with two fingers until she could see his shinigami eyes burning holes into her head. 

“Hello, Will.” She said, shutting the door behind her with one dainty heel. She reached behind her and twisted the lock, listening for the satisfying click of the bolt sliding into place. 

“Grell.” He said. He had the most rigid posture, always. He reached down and wrapped gloved hands around the black handle of his death scythe, lifting it up and pointing it in her direction as idly as a gentleman aiming a dart. “You are home early.” 

“It is 3:15!” she protested.

“It is twenty minutes from here to the office. You are off,” he emphasized, “by five minutes. Do I need to speak to Ronald?” 

“No, no.” she waved her hand impatiently. He was still too calm, too collected. She knew he was pissed. He was being passive-aggressive. She hated that more than anything. “Ronald has no control over anything I do. You know that. Stop threatening the poor boy.” 

“Would you rather I threaten you, instead?” Will reached down with his other hand and squeezed the lever of his scythe. The shears shot forward, snapping shut just a quarter of an inch away from her nose. Grell lifted her chin, and then smirked, touching the side of the scythe and pushing it away from her face. 

“Promises, promises.” She sneered. 

Will’s lip curled, baring his teeth, and he thrust his scythe up. The tip of the shears sliced across Grell’s cheek, leaving a thin red line eking blood in their wake. 

Grell laughed, grabbing the pole. She approached Will slowly, sliding her hand up and down the death scythe as she did so. She stopped when her knee hit the table, only a foot and a half away from him. She leaned over, holding his gaze, she ran her tongue up the long scythe. 

“Is that what you want?” she whispered, her lips wet and shiny in the yellow light. “Filthy, filthy man.” 

He swallowed, but his face betrayed nothing of what he might be feeling. She could tell he had come home from work and then sat directly down in the chair to wait for her return. He had thrown his blazer over the back of his chair. The top two buttons of his crisp white shirt were undone, exposing deathly pale skin and a prominent collarbone. His black tie was loose and hung limply around neck. As far as Will was concerned he was practically naked. 

“Take off your shoes, darling.” She said sarcastically. “Let us heighten the passion of the moment.” 

Will slammed his open palm down on the table. It shuddered beneath the force. Grell’s eyes widened, her smug expression faltering only a little. 

“You are angry,” she said. “I wonder why.” 

“You stink of death, like a demon.” He stood, sliding his hand over the surface of the table as he circled it towards her. “Or rather… an Undertaker.” 

She laughed in his face, dropping his death scythe and letting it clatter to the floor. 

“You jealous cad!” she admonished him. “I haven’t been fucking that old letch. Not today, anyway…” her words were cut off when he grabbed her by the throat, applying just enough pressure with his thumb underneath her Adam’s apple to make her uncomfortable. 

“You are a whore,” the words were a scathing hiss. “You should recognize it, for as many as you have ripped open.” 

She grabbed his wrist, her own voice low. “I could say the same of you, as many as you have stabbed.”

He grabbed her, wrapping his fingers up in its length until they were tugging cruelly on her scalp. Using only a third of his preternatural strength, he slammed her face into the table. She only whimpered when it made impact, and then he did it again, harder. She heard the expensive wood crack and an entire side of her face went numb. She felt more warm blood, gushing down her temple and streaming down her neck. 

She laughed, biting down on her glove with her sharp teeth and ripping it away from her hand. She pressed her fingers to the hot, sticky blood. She whipped around, the world dipping dangerously in her dazed state, and she smeared the blood on Will’s face, knocking his glasses away in the process. 

“Is that how you like it?” she spat. “Red suits you, darling.” 

He dropped her to the ground, bending to pick up his glasses and set them disdainfully on his nose. He then turned to her, digging his foot into her side. She winced and rolled over, only to feel him slam another kick into the small of her back. She cried out and lay on her stomach. This was not the kind of pain she favored.

New leather sliding through cloth. She heard his belt clink as he folded it over, and then snapped it. She jumped involuntarily at the sound and moaned, knowing what was coming, knowing she could try to stop it by putting up a real fight, but it probably wouldn’t work. 

He straddled her back, his knees hitting the floor on either side of her. He clamped his thighs, pinioning her arms to her sides. Will grasped both ends of the belt and pulled it down over her head, yanking back – the leather pressed against her throat and made her choke. Grell squirmed, bucking her hips, trying to throw him off – but she was powerless to do so. Stars burst across her vision as the pain and the pressure slowly reduced her ability to breathe. Her head was getting light. She knew she was close to passing out, but he would not let that happen. Not yet. 

William slid the belt away at the last minute. Grell gasped for precious air, her frantic gulps ending in a strangled cry as he brought the belt down on her ass.

“William!” she screamed. 

“Grell.” He stood. Reaching down, he grasped the waist of her pants, yanking them down past her hips and baring her smooth, pale ass. Another pull, and her pants were around her ankles. Shapely calves, still bearing welts and scars from similar nights. 

“William, please.” She tried to push herself up off the floor, but he ground his heel against the small of her back, keeping her down. He raised the belt, and there was a long, torturous pause before he brought it down across her thighs. The sound echoed throughout the small apartment, along with her screams as she pressed her face to the floor, begging in every language she knew. 

Will brought the belt down again, and again, and again – a torrent of merciless blows. He whipped her across her ass, her thighs, her calves. He was calculating, meticulous as always. His blows were measured, evenly spaced so that the old sting had just enough time to ebb away before he brought fresh hell down on the same spot again. Some of the older welts split open again, and blood was flowing freely from her broken skin. She could feel it pulling against the floor, soaking the hem of her shirt. Another blouse ruined. 

“William, William…” she moaned, her throat raw from the abuse, her whole body shaking with exertion and pain. “William, you will ruin me…” 

She didn’t even notice when the blows stopped. Her ears were ringing, the only color she could see was red. 

She felt his cool, strong hands touch her hips. She cried again and lifted her head a little as he leaned over to kiss her uninjured cheek, dragging his lips down her neck.

“I’m sorry.” He said. “But I have to punish you, Grell.” 

“I know,” she turned her head and nuzzled him, prompting for a real kiss – which he graciously granted. His lips were firm, sinuous. There was power behind them. 

“You are precious to me,” he told her, lifting his hands from her hips. “No one else can have you. No one else can touch you.” 

“I know,” she said again as she heard him stand up. 

“Only I can make you bleed like you need to.” 

“Yes,” her teeth played with her bottom lip, which had split again. “You are good to me, Will. Even when you’re angry.” 

He knelt behind her again, leaning over to put one hand against her chest and then press his to her back. She felt his slick, oiled cock brush across her sore, bleeding ass. 

“William,” she moaned, arching her back and pushing her ass up against him. “Oh, my William. Take me, you beautiful, cold man...” 

His fingers teased her ass cheeks, splaying them apart, he rubbed his cock between them until he found her entrance. She felt him push his way inside and it dragged a deep, throaty groan from her lips. He eased his way inside, knowing too well this was one good better left undamaged. He was hard, so hard. She pushed her ass against him, again, rocking back and forth – sliding up and down his length. She gasped and gripped the hand that was pressed against her. She loved how warm he was, how even the coldest, most heartless reaper could still be hot with passion. Passion for her. Desire for her.

He beat her. He made her bleed. He loved her. 

He began to move his hips, thrusting deep, taking it slow at first before picking up a little bit of speed. 

“Harder,” she said through teeth. “Fuck me harder, dammit!” 

He gave in to her demands. He pressed both his hands to the floor, using the support to gain better control of his movements. His hips rammed against her ass, his oiled cock making wet sucking sounds each time it slid in and out of her tight hole. Grell stuffed her fingers in her mouth to stifle her own sounds, wanting to hear his flesh smack against hers, wanting to listen to his labored breathing and grunts as his orgasm built. 

“Release inside me, Will….” She gasped, on the verge of tears. “Cum deep inside. I need to feel you. Fill me up. Claim me – I’m yours!” 

He grabbed her hair again, slamming her face back into the floor, he growled in her ear.

“You talk too much,” he said, thrusting as deep as he could at the same time. He pumped his hips in and out a few more times before ramming himself deep once more, his orgasm a gush of hot, thick cum that filled her up and leaked from her asshole when he pulled out.

He said something else, but she didn’t hear it. Her head throbbed, her ass hurt. She was bleeding and felt crippled by his blows. It was going to be a miracle if she managed to slide out of bed tomorrow. But she knew she would have to. He was going to make her go to work anyway. 

He was walking away, now. She wondered if he had bid her to come to bed. 

She didn’t want to move, but maybe it would be worth getting up in the morning. After all, she would love to hear what her Undertaker had to say on all this.


	4. Brogues

The front door of the funeral home creaked open. Undertaker felt a sliver of warm, treacherous sunlight fall onto his bony fingers as they slid out, stopping inches away from the gleaming white brogues in front of him. He grinned, tilting his head up just enough to get a full view. Such style. Such class. There was not a speck of dirt on them. 

Ronald reached down and scratched his leg. His trouser leg lifted, flashing a pale, bony ankle. Undertaker nearly lost his mind. What he wouldn't give for just a little nibble… 

He just couldn't resist. His long fingernails brushed over the exposed ankle bone, dragging across that tight youthful skin. Ronald jumped ten feet forward, nearly careening into a building across the street. 

"Holy shit!" He grabbed his death scythe and swung it around, its motor whirring. The deadly blade stopped right in front of Undertaker's face, slicing a bit of skin off his regal nose. The Undertaker grinned and chuckled, slinking back into the darkness of his home. Ronald growled and kicked the door open, one foot on his lawnmower ready to kill. 

"Not today, you old pervert!" Ronald shouted angrily. "What the hell are you doing crawling around on the ground like that?"

"And just what are you doing outside of my door, Ronald Knox?" Undertaker's sinister giggle could clearly be heard, though the elder reaper was nowhere to be seen. "Come to pay a visit to your dear elder?"

Ronald growled, wielding his side and crashing it into the side of the nearest coffin. Wood split, flying into the air and raining back down on Ronald's head. He raked a gloved hand through his hair, shaking out splinters and shredded fabric. 

"Lecherous bastard," he muttered under his breath. 

"I would not do that, my dear." The Undertaker whispered, licking the shell of Ronald's ear. 

Ronald spun around. A hand clamped down immediately over his throat, a long thumbnail digging into the soft place underneath his jaw, drawing a bead of blood. It slipped down his neck and Ronald took a deep breath, his heart pounding as he stood toe-to-toe with the infamous reaper. 

"My loves," the Undertaker said, "are very precious to me."

Ronald dropped his death scythe. The engine sputtered and the machine clunked as it hit the ground, falling silent without Ronald's hands to guide it. The Undertaker lifted his other hand, holding a steaming teacup underneath Ronald's nose, fogging his glasses. 

"Tea?" The Undertaker asked, releasing his hold on the younger reaper. 

Ronald cleared his throat and took hold of the delicate teacup. "Thanks. You didn't answer my question."

"You did not answer mine, either." The Undertaker stepped past Ronald, moving to caress his poor, injured coffin. He touched the deep gouges gingerly, purring and rubbing the cracked sides. 

Inexplicably, Ronald felt his skin crawl. 

"I'm waiting for Grell. He's twenty minutes late." Ronald said. 

"She," Undertaker corrected. 

Ronald made an exasperated sound. "I keep forgetting!" 

"She." Undertaker cooed sympathetically as he pulled a long splinter away from the coffin's rim. "Speaking of ladies, you've dealt a deadly blow to this one." 

"Why were you crawling around on the floor?" Ronald sipped his tea. 

"I was admiring your shoes." 

"I don't understand. What is the fascination?"

"Just promise me one thing, Ronald Knox. In the event that the Phantomhive demon ever tears you to pieces, be sure your shoes and those delectable ankles end up with me. I have the most beautiful stained wooden box that is just their size. It is lined with pearl satin… I thought it terribly appropriate…" 

"You mean you already have a box?" Ronald's eyes were as round as dinner plates. 

“Of course,” Undertaker sounded slightly offended. “After all, you never know when a hungry demon will appear.” 

“I suppose you are right, Undertaker.” A resonant, cultured voice filled the room. Ronald felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he and the Undertaker turned to face the door. 

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Ronald whispered.

“You do not hear the dead,” Undertaker’s smile faded into a frown. “You smell them.”

“You sound like William.” Ronald cut the older reaper a side-eye. 

Sebastian only granted them his trademark half-smile, placing a white gloved hand against his chest and bowing rigidly from the waist, his long dark hair slipping over his cheeks. The only thing about him that was ever out of place. 

“My most sincere apologies,” he said, “for such a rash intrusion.” 

“You are off your leash today, dog.” Ronald really wished his scythe was within easier reach. “What orders did your master set you loose with today?” 

“My business,” Sebastian’s smile was bemused, his voice cold. “Is with the Undertaker.” 

Undertaker snickered, taking Ronald’s teacup away from him and patting him on the back. Ronald recoiled, grimacing. 

“Off with you then, my dear.” The Undertaker said. “The earl’s lapdog knows how this will go. I must receive...” he giggled with anticipation, “prime laughter.” 

“Best done in private, I’m assuming.” Ronald could only imagine what indignities such a thing entailed. His feathers were already ruffled at being patted and sent off like a child. “All right. I’m out of here.” He ducked and grabbed his scythe, swinging it through the air and stopping the wheels just inches from Sebastian’s face. The blade whirred threateningly, but the demon did not appear phased. He merely gave Undertaker a tired look. 

Ronald ruefully withdrew his scythe and stepped back out into the street, closing the funeral home door behind him. No sooner had he settled his back against the building did Grell land in front of him, spinning on her heels, blood flying from the teeth of her chainsaw and splattering onto Ronald’s face. 

“Oh dear, oh dear,” she smiled, approaching him, swiping her thumb over his cheek. The blood only smeared across it. “Red really isn’t your color, darling.” 

“I should not have woken up this morning,” Ronald said, biting back a sharper retort. “The boss is going to roast me on a spit over hell.” 

“I doubt he’ll do that, dear. William hates the heat.” Grell moved to peer into the Undertaker’s windows. “Where is the old fool today?” 

“He’s inside. With the Phantomhive butler.” Ronald sounded miffed. “He told me to leave them alone.” 

“What?” Grell’s mouth fell open and she drew back, adjusting her red glasses as they slipped down her sharp nose. “You can’t be serious. My Sebas-chan is in there… entertaining that old creep? When he could be in my loving arms?” 

“I don’t think it’s as exciting as all that.” Ronald straightened. “Are you ready to go?” 

“No. I’ve caught up on all of our assignments. I reaped them ahead of schedule.” 

Ronald groaned. That was almost worse than falling behind. William believed in strict guidelines and rigid schedules. In his pristine world there was no ‘falling behind’ and certainly no ‘getting ahead’. The spirit world, he always said, was resting on the head of a pin and the most minor imbalance could upend the entire cosmos. Of course, Grell never seemed to care. Or listen to that particular lecture. 

“You worry too much,” Grell waved her hand dismissively. “I just want to spend some time catching up with an old friend. I’ve already told you that you don’t have to watch.”

“You don’t get it.” Ronald said. “You really don’t get it. I have to report back to the boss in an hour. Where am I going to tell him I left you?” 

“Anywhere in London. That’s the beauty of a city, Ronald, you have options...” 

“I give up!” Ronald threw his hands in the air, completely exasperated. “I have to go. I will see you later – maybe – you know, if I’m not fired first!” he spun on his heel, snarling, and placed his foot on his lawnmower scythe, feeling it rumble before launching himself into the air. 

Behind him, the entire building shook with the Undertaker’s shrieking laughter.


	5. Unfair

Ronald heard the knob turn and the door slide open. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for the worst, but there was no longer delaying the inevitable. He should have stopped for a drink on his way back to work, but that would have tacked 'tardiness' and 'disorderly conduct' onto his quickly growing stack of offenses. 

Ronald picked his head up from where it had been buried in his hands and looked over. Eric emerged from Will's office, looking a bit disgruntled. His eyes fell briefly onto Ronald who granted him a sympathetic smile. Eric proceeded to ignore him and just continued silently down the hall, leaving the office door wide open. 

"Knox." 

He cringed when he heard his name. Ronald stood, brushing his trousers off and straightening his blazer. Running out of ways to dick around, he swept back his blonde and black hair and stepped into the office; his brightest, most charismatic smile plastered on his face. 

"Hello, boss!" Ronald said cheerily. "I'm just reporting the end of my shift, like you said…" 

"Knox," Will adjusted his glasses. "What orders did I give you yesterday?"

"To, um," Ronald bit the inside of his cheek. "Well. To follow Sutcliff around and make sure she…"

"He." 

Ronald closed his eyes. William never used Grell's correct pronoun at work. 'Unprofessional', he had deemed it with some disgust. 

 

"…He." Ronald sighed. "Make sure he finished his work."

"And to absolutely under no circumstances let him relieve himself of duty before 3am." 

Yeah, there had also been that. Ronald swallowed hard. 

"I'm sorry, boss. I'm kind of helpless in this situation. Grell is a whirlwind and I'm more like…a leaf." 

“Mm.” Will reached down and pulled open a drawer. “Unfortunately, Knox, dead shrubbery is nothing to be cultivated. It must be clipped. We operate here as a well-oiled machine, and if orders are disregarded, things fall apart. In short,” he glanced at Ronald over the rim of his glasses. “I am taking away your death scythe.”

“What!” Ronald’s mouth fell open. “Boss…you can’t…!” 

“You will get it back based on your good behavior. So whatever instructions I give you from now on, I expect them to be followed.” Will’s words left no room for argument. 

“But…but boss, what am I supposed to use…how am I supposed to do my job? Without my scythe, I can’t…!” Ronald was at a loss for words and he hated it. His tongue felt stupid and clumsy. 

Will set his hand on the desk. When he removed it, he left behind a pair of shiny scissors… only about as big as Ronald’s hand, and better suited for snipping threads. 

“You can’t be serious,” Ronald seemed honestly offended. 

“Grell has managed with them before.” Will shut the desk drawer. “I will hear no more of your incompetence, Knox. One more slip and you will see the brunt of my fury.” 

‘But I have seen it,’ Ronald thought. ‘I’ve seen how you make her bleed.’

Ronald set his hand on top of the scissors, pulling them closer to him before sweeping them up. They were heavy, but felt so flimsy in comparison to the weight and power of his scythe. God, he wanted to cry.

“You will turn you scythe in until further notice. Just leave it by the door.” Will flicked his hand as if dismissing a child. “You may go.” 

Ronald swallowed hard. Nodding, he slipped the scissors into his pocket and stepped out of the door, closing it behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

"Grell Sutcliff."

Grell had been so lost in thought she didn't even notice the demon until he was standing right in front of her. Her breath hitched as she met his smoldering eyes, her favorite color; though closer to merlot in this light than blood. 

"Well, well, well," she quickly recovered herself, reaching up to twirl a lock of fine hair around her finger. "My dear Sebas-chan, so you appear to a lady in her hour of need? How formidable and cold you are! How very like Eden's serpent, and I your Eve! have you come to draw me down into the depths of delicious sin?" 

He remained, as ever, monstrously unimpressed. He reached out and tucked a stray wisp behind her ear, as if the very act of it being out of place annoyed the hell out of him. 

"You are disgusting," the demon said, never one to mince words. 

"Oh, Bassy!" she placed a hand against her forehead, falling dramatically against the wall. "Your sweet nothings are nectar on the parched throat of this divine being. If I open my mouth wider, will you quench my thirst?" 

Now she was just being sarcastic. His eyes flashed. She wondered - if she were to draw her scythe over them… would they turn a much nicer red?

It was something to consider. 

“You have not killed me yet,” she said, prodding for a bigger reaction. “Why such generosity?” 

“There are people in the street. I do not wish to burden them with the task of sweeping such a thing into the gutter.” He leaned closer, as close as he had ever been outside of combat, and spoke quietly in her ear. “There are bruises on your neck.”

“They match the bruises,” she hissed sharply, “on your master’s legs.” 

Sebastian pulled back, a ghost of a smile dancing on his lips. He lifted two gloved fingers and touched the side of his nose, as if they shared a scandalous bit of knowledge.

“Clever boy.” 

“Girl,” she growled.

“As you say.” He dismissed it, sweeping her ire under the rug like so much dross. 

“Good dogs don’t bite the hands that feed them.” She said, pursing her lips. “You are a bad little dog, Sebas-Chan.” 

“He has not fed me. Not yet.” Sebastian slid his hands over the stiff, starched collar of his coat to adjust it, glancing up at the sky. “I intend to make a meal of him. That does not give him leave to be difficult. I do not care for his fits of acting his age. It is dull.” 

“So you temper his fits with a rod across the calves, and then you cover them up with those nice silk stockings. How clever.” 

A fat raindrop hit the lens of Grell’s glasses. It was beginning to rain, and a moment ago it had been so sunny. 

She hated English weather. 

Sebastian did not seem the list bit bothered. 

“I will be back here tonight, after my master retires.” Sebastian said. His eyes fell back on Grell. “Meet me here.” 

She wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. “Oh my, Sebas-chan. What is the occasion? A duel to the death? The blood of demon and reaper falling from the sky as they tear each other to pieces beneath the glory of a full moon, raining color and painting this dreary, doleful city red?” 

“Don’t be dull. Do as you are told.” He stepped closer, once more. “Good girls get treats.” 

Momentarily, she forgot how to breathe. “I am not your dog, darling.” She said. “I don’t come on command.”

He swept up her hand, and she could not help but wish their gloves would dissolve on the spot, giving them the skin-to-skin contact she so desperately desired. “Better on command than not at all.” 

Her cheeks caught fire. She turned her head. 

He brushes his lips over the back of her hand. She felt his hair tickle the exposed skin of her wrist between glove and jacket sleeve. Then he was gone, as if he had never existed. She never even felt him pull away. 

 

0000000000000000000

It was past nine o’ clock. Ronald was sitting on the roof of the Undertaker’s funeral home, loathe to return but under order to keep watch on Grell. She had not returned to the office and Will was still at work, so there was no way for her to return to their apartment. Will had instructed Ronald to find her and then keep watch, so here he sat, because she was leaning against the building and swinging her chainsaw from the end of one finger like it was a toy. He wondered what she was doing here, and partially relieved that she was not inside with the Undertaker; because Ronald had concluded he would rather lose his job than step back into that establishment and watch them fornicate. 

“You must forgive me. I forget your name.” 

Ronald almost plummeted to the street below. He regained his balance, glancing furiously over his shoulder to see who had snuck up on him. It was the demon, Sebastian Michaelis…or whatever. 

Ronald plunged his hand into his pocket, withdrawing his scissors and brandishing them like a sword. “One step closer, demon, and…” 

A gloved finger touched his lips, silencing him as effectively as a gag. 

“Your passion for your work is commendable. Unfortunately, I do not have time to indulge it. I have an eventful evening planned and it will not do to have you following me, watching my every move. I am a very private man.”

Ronald scoffed, jerking his head away from the demon’s touch. “I’m under orders from the boss….” 

Sebastian’s eyes practically glowed in the moonlight. “Ah yes. Our mutual friend.” 

Ronald’s jabbed at Sebastian with his scissors. The demon did not move. He caught the blades between two of his fingers, sliding them down the length. He then gripped Ronald’s wrist and twisted it painfully, turning his own hand against him and touching the sharp tip of the scissors just underneath the reaper’s chin, drawing a bead of blood. 

“If you will be so kind as to tell William not to send his pup to do his dirty work. If he wants to know how Grell is entertained behind his back, he need do no more than step out of the musty office and get some work done, for a change.” Sebastian tilted his head and smiled. “So if you please. Relay my message to Will and vanish from this vicinity immediately. I am not a patient man.” He released his hold on Ronald’s wrist. Ronald tumbled back, landing on his ass and narrowly avoiding skidding across the roof tiles. He would have fought the demon, but without his scythe he lacked the confidence. He would have to tell William to come down here, himself. He had no choice. 

Ronald looked down at Grell, hoping she could take care of herself long enough for him to get help. Without a second glance, he righted himself onto his feet and sprang into their air, his vanishing figure swallowed by the night.


	7. Infidelity

Grell’s dreams of Sebastian had always been what she deemed realistic. She somehow knew that if he was going to take her, it was going to be in an alley up against the wall of some shoddy, crumbling building like a whore. He would lift her skirts and press her face into the wall, and when he was done he would leave. There was never any romantic notion about it. He was a demon, and demons could never possess any sort of class – no matter how well they pretended, or how cleverly they spoke in front of their masters. 

So when Sebastian appeared to her, not saying a word but offering only his white-gloved hand, she had taken it expecting nothing more than what she had spent countless nights imagining. When he brought her to the steps of one of the lushest hotels in London, her mouth nearly hit the ground. 

And when he had put his hands on her shoulders, sliding them down to sweep away her red coat and toss it onto the bed, she thought she would die of anticipation. 

Anticipation. Arousal. Curiosity. 

Yet she was not nearly as afraid as she should have been. 

He stepped in front of her, now undoing the buttons of her vest with practiced dexterity. He leaned forward, far enough to take the end of her striped tie between his teeth and pull it loose. The vest hit the floor, the tie followed. Her shirt came next, and then she was half-naked, his cool gloves against her burning skin. 

“Kneel.” He said. A single word that sent her heart slamming into her chest and then careening into her gut. 

“I’m sorry?” she asked, adjusting her glasses. 

He pinched the bridge of her glasses, sliding them off her nose, he let them fall. They thumped against her chest, dangling from their chain. 

“My first rule,” he said, “is that I only ever say things once.” 

She dropped down to her knees, and he stepped behind her again. He slipped down to one knee, picking up her striped tie and smoothing out the fine creases between his fingers. “Hands behind your back.”

Grell did as she was told, trying to be mindful of glasses, putting her hands behind her back and crossing them at the wrists. He tightened the striped silk around them and knotted it effectively before leaning over, and she felt only the faintest brush of his lips over the shell of her ear. 

“Sebastian,” she breathed.

“My second rule,” he said. “Not a word from you.” His put his arms around her, one gloved hand against her chest, the other holding a small, thin blade to her throat. 

She swallowed hard, feeling the blade warm to her skin. A second passed, and he removed it. 

“Lay down. On your stomach.” 

She did so, pressing her cheek to the cold hotel floor. He brushed her long red hair away so that her back was exposed, chill bumps rising on her skin. She felt the tip of the knife at the base of her neck, and then he drew the thin blade down. Her flesh parted without any resistance. He did not cut very deep, but deeper than just red scratches on the skin. She felt hot blood begin to trickle down her back, and her breath hitched, her world slipping into a beautiful crimson haze. 

The sort of pleasure she liked. He didn’t have to beat her to make her bleed. 

He lifted his knife, only to set it down again in a different spot, continuing his work as if he were painting a portrait in blood, carving his ownership into her skin. She sighed and whimpered as she felt him straddle her hips but not put pressure on them, keeping as much of himself from touching her as possible. He brought the knife all the way down to her lower back and the ventured up to her opposite shoulder. She bit her tongue to keep noises at a minimum, but she knew she was failing, and her erection was straining so hard against her pants, trapped between her hips and the floor, that she could hardly stand it. 

“Touch me, Sebastian.” She moaned, turning her face to press it further into the floor. She felt the tip of the knife dig into her shoulder, and she yelped in pain. 

“You have already broken a rule.” He chastised her. The fresh blood gushed to the floor, she could feel it dripping, staining the tile. 

She couldn’t help it. She wanted to feel him. She wanted skin-to-skin contact, she wanted to know what it felt like to have that hard, hot body pressed to her, wanting her, smearing blood over her skin and lapping it up with his tongue. She wanted him to turn her over and look her in the face, fucking her like a woman, something Will never did. She was tired of being taken. She wanted to be loved. 

The pressure of the knife was temporarily alleviated. Grell drew in a shuddering breath, her whole body shivering as if she had just run a race. Sebastian bit the index fingertip of his glove and slowly pulled it away. She felt the glove land against her bound hands, and then she felt the tip of his nails glide over her fresh cuts, tugging ever so gently at their corners. She moaned and writhed underneath him. Her back burned, the cuts stung, his nails were making them sore and throbbing. She could no longer see anything other than her favorite color, and her body was alive with sensation. 

Fingertips, light as a spider’s thread, dancing over her throat, sliding down the shell of her ear. Grell whimpered and bit her lip, wanting to beg him for more, but not wanting to make him angry enough to stop. 

“Turn.”

She tried to do as she was bid, but it was difficult with her hands bound. He grabbed hold of her hips and flipped her over on his own, and then he was looming over her, his expression unnaturally calm and frustratingly smug. 

Any annoyance that may have arisen within her was immediately gone when he touched the very, very tip of his tongue to one of her erect nipples. She released a strangled cry and he did it again. She could feel the wetness from his tongue, the only way she could be sure he actually touched her at all. He moved on to the other one, the tip of is tongue making a path across her chest. He gave her other nipple the same treatment, but just as she sighed, getting comfortable with his touch – he bit down, quite unexpectedly, drawing blood.

She screamed. It hurt worse than the knife. 

He did not pay her scream any mind. He focused instead on pulling her pants down just an inch, not enough to expose anything more than her sharp hip bones. He touched their curve with his tongue, and then drew his bare fingertips over the slick path. She thought she was going to die, right there, before anything more happened. She wanted to feel his mouth. She wanted to beg to be fucked. 

“Sebastian,” she whined, her back arching. “Please, please. Fuck me.” 

He looked up, but he wasn’t looking at her. He smiled. 

“Say it again.” He said. “Louder.”

“Please!” her voice rose, broken with need. “Please, please fuck me!” 

“Once more, I don’t think Master Spears quite heard you.” 

Grell let out a strangled cry. She twisted and strained to catch a glimpse of what he was talking about, but it was mostly futile. She only saw the tops of shiny black shoes standing in the midst of broken glass. Had he really broken through the window…and had she really not heard him do so?

She did hear him growl, a dark, low sound emanating from the depths of his throat. 

“Demon,” he snarled, placing his hand on the lever of his scythe. That was all he said.

It was all he needed to say.


	8. Jealousy

His shears sliced through the air, diving for the demon’s heart. Sebastian jumped out of the way, flipping over Grell and landing elegantly on his feet within arm’s reach of William, his coattails flapping. 

“And here, I thought we could discuss this like civilized gentlemen…” Sebastian placed a hand to his chest, sounding disappointed. 

“Civilized!” Will hissed through his teeth, crushing the handle of his scythe in his strong grip and sending it shooting forward again and again, aiming for whatever piece of Sebastian he could. The demon eluded the blades each time, dancing around Will as if this were no more than a well-choreographed piece. Grell tugged on her bonds and snapped the silk tie like it was a thread, letting out a small sigh at the idea of having lost another one. 

“William!” Grell scanned the room for her scythe, racking her brain trying to remember where she had left it. “You’re being a child, you will get yourself killed – stop it!”

The look he gave her promised nothing less than death, but he did not dignify her outcry with a response. He hefted his scythe and swung it around, the metal beaming her across the temple. Grell reeled and fell against the bed, her hand clutching her head as her vision started to blur and break up into a series of dark gray splotches. 

The shears came for Sebastian again, but he reached up, this time grabbing the pole. He tried to wrench the scythe out of Will’s grip, but the reaper, instead, used the new leverage to haul Sebastian forward and slam a foot into his gut. Sebastian doubled over, a rush of air forcing its way past his lips as he looked up at Will in surprise, a look which quickly faded to bemusement. 

“I did not dare hope,” the demon said, “that she meant this much to you.” 

“You have defiled a divine creature. You will pay the ultimate price.” Will ground his teeth. His glasses were slipping, and a section of his immaculately slicked back hair had absconded from the rest and was now falling into his eyes.

“Your scythe is a very formidable weapon,” Sebastian taunted him, pacing around the reaper in a tight circle like a predatory cat. “But you can see I am unarmed.” He lifted his hands, showing they were empty. “You would not dare face me, man to man.” 

“Reaper to demon. There are no men here.” Will tightened his grip on his scythe. “I am not a fool.” 

“I would never accuse you of being such.” There was no sarcasm in Sebastian’s voice, but it was still implied. 

Will straightened. He dropped his scythe unceremoniously to the floor, then pushing it aside with his foot. He flexed his hands, loosening up his fingers, and settled into a fighting stance, his eyes never leaving Sebastian as the demon continued to circle. 

A slow smile spread over Sebastian’s sinuous mouth. He stopped right in front of Will, grinding his heel against the floor, then he sprang forward, his lips parting to flash sharp, white teeth. Will did not waiver, but with a very calculated swing, he slammed his fist into Sebastian’s throat, sending the demon back a few paces. He did not give Sebastian time to recover from the blow. Will leapt, landing on Sebastian’s chest, he brought his hand down on the demon’s face, slamming his head into the floor. Sebastian’s skull cracked against the tile, and William sank his teeth over Sebastian’s ear. There was a sickly crackle of cartilage. 

The demon did not scream.

Sebastian grabbed Will’s wrist, dragging his hand down only far enough that Sebastian could slide his mouth over Will’s two middle fingers. Will wrenched his head to the side. Cartilage split again, and he spat Sebastian’s ear to the ground, strands of saliva and blood trailing from his lips. Sebastian bit down on Will’s fingers. Bone snapped.

The reaper screamed. 

Glove and all, Sebastian had bitten off the tips of his left middle and ring finger. Will brought his other hand down on Sebastian’s face, attempting to drive his fingers into the demon’s eyes. Sebastian crushed Will’s body against his chest, rolling over so that he was resting on top of the shinigami, spitting blood onto his face. 

Grell’s vision was coming back. She kept her hands on the side of the bed as she made her way around it, barely able to make out her scythe propped up against the wall, close to a wardrobe. She was royally pissed off with her William, right now. At first because he had interrupted her fun, and now because he was trying to have more fun without her. 

She reached her scythe. Grell grasped its thick handle and drew back the cord, feeling the powerful engine vibrating heavily, and the chainsaw’s teeth whirring with deadly efficiency. She grinned and laughed out loud, spinning on her heel and rushing over to where her two men lay tangled on the ground, locked in a duel to the death over her honor. How romantic. 

“Oh, Sebas-chan!” she brought her glasses up to rest on her nose once more, only half-dressed but never one to miss a fight on that account alone. “Do not pick on poor William, you’ll make me so jealous!” 

Sebastian’s lip curled. This was the last thing he needed. Grell needed to make up her damn mind. Either she was entirely helpless or a complete lunatic. 

Sebastian brought his arm up just in time for it catch the brunt of the chainsaw’s descending blow. His arm smacked against the base, and the teeth whirred above his head. Grell angled the scythe lower, her eyes gleaming, watching strands of his black hair split off as the blade inched closer to his head. Her heart was pounding. What if she split open his skull? What would she do with her dear Sebastian’s brains painting the room in bright, glorious red? 

The blood gushing down the side of his face, matting his hair and drenching his stiff white collar, was too bold, too beautiful a color to be ignored.

“Oh, Sebas-chan,” she said, “your blood is too intoxicatingly stunning! But of course it would be!” 

He managed to get enough leverage to push the chainsaw back. The effort lifted him up far enough that Will could move again. Will brought up his long legs, slamming his feet into Sebastian’s chest and sending him flying across the room. Sebastian hit the broken window, a long, jagged piece of glass slicing open his cheek. More blood. 

Sebastian gripped the windowsill, the cold London air making his wounds sting. Will was already righting himself, sweeping his death scythe up from the floor. Will pushed his glasses up his nose, sultry lighting glinting off the lenses. Grell moved to stand beside him, her own scythe readied for a death blow. They really did make quite a vicious pair. 

Sebastian had had enough of this farce. He reached up to touch the place where his ear used to be. The fingers of his white gloves came back soaked with blood. 

“How unfortunate,” he said, straightening. “I will return the favor to you, Will, but I fear I must depart.” He turned to face the reapers, and placed a hand against his chest. “My master will be expecting his breakfast in a few hours and I have scant time to prepare.” 

“You will serve your master beaten half to death, with pieces of you resting on the floor of some distant hotel room?” William bared bloody teeth. 

Sebastian only smiled, and bowed at the waist.

“A Phantomhive butler who cannot do this much isn’t worth his salt.” He set one foot on the windowsill, and in a spill of moonlight he was gone.


	9. Recovery

“What have you done to your face?” 

Sebastian slid his fingers through the fragile handle of the teapot, lifting it off the table and tipping it over Ciel’s teacup. His young master waited for an answer, his uncovered eye scrutinizing the fresh scrapes across Sebastian’s cheek mercilessly. 

His master missed nothing, and had surely noticed the missing ear as well. Yet he had chosen to criticize the one flaw that perhaps needled the most. 

“Your tea is going to get cold, my lord.” Sebastian said, his grip on the teapot tighter than necessary. Yet he smiled. 

Ciel scoffed, a soft disdainful sound that was irritating as often as it was arousing. He lifted the teacup to his lips and primly blew the rising steam away from the surface before taking his first sip. 

“The tea is weak,” the young earl said. 

“You forgiveness, my lord.” Sebastian took the teacup from the young master’s hand placed it gently on its saucer. “I will prepare another pot.” 

“You should be more careful.” Ciel said. “You represent the head of the Phantomhive household when you are in public.” 

“Yes, my lord.” 

“I will not have my butler looking like he gets into knife fights with brigands.” 

“Yes, my lord.” Sebastian tried to remove the teacup.

The young earl placed his hand over the top, stopping the motion. He turned his head to glare at the demon, his blue eye narrowing. 

“Sebastian. What have you been doing?” 

Sebastian met his gaze steadily, but did not reply. 

“Sebastian!” Ciel growled. “I order you to tell me!” 

The thinly veiled concern on the boy’s face would have, at any other time, been endearing. It was not something Sebastian had the patience for today. 

He had tried to kill William, and he had been unsuccessful. If he were to try again, he would have to re-think his entire strategy and find another pawn. Grell was useless to him at this stage. 

Sebastian looked down at his young master, wondering if the boy ever looked at him and forgot he was a demon. Their contract would end with him devouring Ciel’s soul, Sebastian never forgot that. 

“I encountered a reaper last night,” Sebastian said at last, pulling the teacup gingerly out from underneath the young earl’s hand and setting it on the breakfast cart. “It was nothing of consequence. I did not manage to kill him this time.” 

“Careless,” Ciel scoffed again, propping up his elbow and resting his cheek against his knuckles. “Will it scar? I would mention the ear, but I doubt even a demon can grow that back.” 

Ah, he had noticed.

“I have not tasted a soul in some time.” Sebastian reminded him. “My abilities to heal myself are quite limited at the moment, and I choose to conserve my energy for more important matters. Such as protecting my young master.”

Ciel rolled his eyes. “I see,” he said. “Try not to lose any further pieces of yourself.” 

“Yes, my lord.” Sebastian bowed at the waist. “I will return at once with your tea.” 

“Forget the tea,” Ciel said. “I want something sweet.” 

Sebastian sighed inwardly. “There are pastries filled with currant jelly. Will that suffice, my lord?” 

“Fine,” Ciel’s voice was short, clipped. He was finished with the conversation. 

Sebastian bowed again, turning to take his leave. Anger was tightening its fist around his stomach, but he suppressed it for now. He did not know where his anger should be directed, but he knew if he wasn’t careful, he was going to lose his temper with the young earl. The last time that happened, the welts on the boy’s legs had split open a few days later, and he had bled right through his stockings in the middle of the queen’s garden party. Really, Sebastian needed to keep a cool head simply to avoid creating extra work for himself. 

There was nothing he could do about Will while the day was still so early. He would have to wait and plan more carefully. That was fine, Sebastian enjoying rising to a challenge. 

Now he had to focus on his duties as a butler, and the young master wanted pastry. 

 

00000000000000

“Senpai!” Ronald banged on the apartment door, remembering too late that Grell had told him eleven times an hour for the past two years not to address her as such. “Dammit. Grell!” he knocked again. “Grell, answer this door, will you? You don’t want to be trapped in there all day making your own coffee!” 

There was a moment’s pause. The knob turned and then the door slid open. Grell stood in the doorway, her slender frame swallowed by a loose light pink chemise. Ronald had this theory that no redhead should ever wear pink, but he wisely kept his opinions to himself. 

“Hey,” Ronald flashed her a smile. “Can I come in?” 

“Ronald,” she moaned, leaning in the doorway. “I really don’t need any company, I’d like to be alone with my abject misery if it’s all the same to you…” 

“Just for a few minutes?” Ronald coaxed. “I was worried when you didn’t show up to work this morning.” 

“William told me not to come in, believe it or not.” She said dryly. Her eyes were rimmed with red; Ronald had no doubt she had been crying. The bruises on her neck, darker than he’d ever seen them, looked like someone had been strangling her with a belt. 

“A vacation!” he tried to keep things light. “Congratulations.” 

She bit her lip. Her eyes watered, but tears did not rise yet. She stepped aside and gestured vaguely. 

“You can…” her voice broke, she swallowed hard and tried again. “You can come in.”

“Do you want me to make your coffee?” he asked, walking past her. She shut the door behind him and locked it. 

“Yes,” she said. 

“So how long is he going to let you take off?” Ronald asked, trying to keep the conversation going as he walked into the kitchen. Grell collapsed into a chair at the dining room table. 

‘Oh shit,’ Ronald thought. ‘Here it comes.’ 

Grell burst into angry, heartbroken tears. 

“He doesn’t want me around!” she said, there was unbridled savagery and unfathomable hurt in her voice. “He said he is through with me, through with me ‘throwing myself’ at ‘just anyone’. He is letting me stay here out of his generosity…” she sneered. “Yes, he is so goddamn generous. He blames me for what Sebastian did to his hand, and he nearly killed me last night… Ronald, I have never seen him lose his temper like he did last night. It was vicious, he was so brutal it … his jealousy would have been so romantic if he hadn’t told me afterwards that I was a whore, and he was through!” 

Ronald remained quiet, letting her say her piece. He filled two cups with the darkly brewed coffee and started a search for some fresh cream. 

“I was going to spend eternity with him.” She said. “He said he loved me.” 

“He said he loved you?” Ronald almost dropped the cream in astonishment. 

Grell sniffed. “Not in so many words. It was implied.” 

“I see…” Ronald didn’t, but he wasn’t going to argue. He poured the cream, watching it turn the black coffee almost white, and then picked up a small spoon to stir. 

“All I want is for a man that I love to love me in return.” Grell moaned. “What will it take? Am I so revolting?”

“I love you.” Ronald said, keeping his tone light, though he meant every word. He walked back to where she was, setting her coffee in front of her, wishing he had whisky to put in his own. 

She scowled at him, accepting her cup. “You are absolutely wretched to jest with me, Ronald. You should be here for me in my dire hour of need.”

“I am here for you,” he settled in to the chair across from her, crossing his legs and sipping his coffee. It fogged up his glasses, hopefully that meant she couldn’t see how embarrassed he was. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“You’re sweet to me,” she stared into her cup. “I wish Will was as sweet to me as you are.” 

“Not really,” Ronald said. “I’m just doing my job.” 

She looked up, as if realization had hit her. 

“Ronald,” she said, “are you on duty right now?” 

“Yes, but it was more important for me to come see how you were doing…” 

“You will never get your scythe back if he catches you slacking off!” she set her cup down, standing. “You have to leave.” 

“Why don’t you come with me?” he suggested. “I mean, I know you’re off and everything, but you can at least get out of the apartment.”

She shook her head. “He took the key with him, if I leave and the door is unlocked when he gets home then he will never let me back in.” 

“Then I’m going to stay here with you.” He said. “I’m not going to leave you alone. Unless…” he trailed off,, and shrugged. “Unless that’s what you want.” 

She thought about it for a minute. “No,” she said, finally. “No, I really don’t want to be alone.” 

Ronald smiled at her. “That settles it, then.” He said. “We can lounge around all day like royalty.” 

“I am not wearing my nightgown all day,” she glanced down, tugging at the fabric unhappily. “I don’t want to dress, either, that’s too much like work. Ugh.” She rolled her eyes. “Life is so difficult.” 

“I’ll get you some clean clothes together,” Ronald said, standing up as well. “And maybe you can take a bath. I think that will help.” 

She nodded. There was a pause, and then she hugged him – ruffling his blonde and black hair and giving him a kiss on the cheek. 

“You don’t have to be my friend, you know.” She said. “Back out while you still can. You don’t owe me anything.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, truly offended. 

“I need to rip something apart.” She said. “Maybe I will come with you, after all.” 

“See how you feel after your bath,” he said. “There is always time for blood later.”


	10. Running

Ronald’s career was flashing before his eyes. It was a short career, but he had had a decent run. He could have gotten promoted, maybe even had a chance to put a few new touches on his death scythe. None of this mattered now, of course, because Will was going to have him ritualistically drawn and quartered. 

“Grell!” his voice was swallowed by the empty hallway as the red-haired reaper disappeared around a corner. Ronald had time to think about what it would be like to die, again, with someone else doing all of the work for a change. He wondered what kind of paperwork would collect in the office as an explanation to the higher-ups about how the bloody disembowelment of a junior employee had been an absolute necessity. He had time to think of the cold glint of disapproval in William’s eyes, the reflection off his glasses that seemed incurable. As long as the shinigami had existed, why had no one thought to concoct some sort of anti-glare coating…? 

“Grell!” Ronald reached the top of the stairs, winded, watching helplessly as she slid down the railing, laughing the entire way, her chainsaw thrown across her lap. One minute, tears. The next minute – madness. Another minute more and there would undoubtedly be blood. Then there would be bitching and sex and somehow it would all cycle back to tears. 

Ronald really needed to stop, at some point, and re-evaluate all of his life choices. 

Grell vanished out the main door of the apartment building. 

Was there a third afterlife? He would probably be the first to find out. 

Ronald started running down the stairs, his expensive white brogues threatening to slip over the smooth, worn dips in the wood. If he fell and broke his neck, he would probably lie there for hours before anyone found him. People would probably step on him. 

He burst out the front door, looking around wildly for any sight of Grell. She was not anywhere within his immediate line of vision… shit. 

He’d lost his boss’ lover, and the apartment door was unlocked. 

Was it possible to commit suicide twice? 

A tap on his shoulder, the lightest graze of wicked metal teeth. Ronald looked up to see Grell sitting on the edge of the lowest part of the roof, the high heels of her boots hooked against a window pane. Her chainsaw dangled from the tip of a single finger and if it dropped now, Ronald would be a goner. He was so relieved to see her that he almost forgot to scowl, but after a moment’s pause he did, adjusting his glasses defiantly. 

“Get down from there!” he demanded. 

“Why?” she pouted.

“You’re going to fall and it’s going to be my fault.” He said. “The boss is going to have me flayed.”

“Ooh,” she purred. She slid further up to the roof so she could rise to her feet, walking along the edge like a cat on a beam. She disappeared ‘round the corner of the house, and Ronald followed her anxiously. 

“Grell, please!”

“Tra la la. One more bruise, what will it hurt?” she lifted her chainsaw, the motion causing her foot to slip. She regained her balance, but a tile skid. It flew off the roof and barely missed Ronald’s head as he felt the blood draining from his face.

“We can go inside,” he said, practically begging. “We can have coffee. We can talk some more. I know you’re upset, Grell, but I’ve already told you, there will be time for blood later…” 

“I don’t want blood later. I want it now.” Her red lips curled, baring her teeth in the most disdainful way. “And I cannot take William’s. As much as I would love to.” 

“No,” Ronald said helplessly. “I don’t suppose…”

“Give me your list,” she held out a gloved hand.

He stared at her blankly. “I’m sorry?” 

“Your list!” she wiggled her fingers. “The list of people you are supposed to be reaping and are not, you naughty boy.” 

Ronald sighed. He jumped into the air and landed on the roof beside her, reaching into his blazer and pulling out the folded list. Grell snatched it from him, opening it up and scanning the names and occupations with her green eyes. 

Her smile was wide and unsettling. 

“Oooh, no prostitutes for you, Ronald my darling.” She giggled. “It looks like you have at least one interesting hit today. Lady Clifton? I’ve always wanted to paint a lady’s room red.” 

“I don’t think…” it was useless arguing. Grell had picked up her scythe and was getting ready to run again. She turned away, but flashed him a smile over her shoulder. 

“If you can keep up,” she teased, “I won’t inform Will that you are terribly behind schedule.” With that, she was off again, and Ronald had no choice but to follow.


End file.
